LIBRAW 


IAN 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


BY 
William  Lindsey 


BOSTON 

COPELAND  AND  DAY 
MDCCCXCV 


COPYRIGHT  BY  COPELAND  AND  DAY  189$ 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  FRIEND 
WILLIAM  H.  LAMBERT,  PH.D. 


ROSEMARY 

MORE  than  mere  wisdom  of  the  book  and 
pen 

You  taught  me,  oh  my  master,  in  the  days 
When  Life's  red  sun  shone  on  untrodden  ways, 
More  than  an  old-world    tongue  you  taught  me 
then, 

More  than  the  truth  a  scholar's  lip  could  tell, 

Though  still  your  Chaucer  only  do  I  see, 

Your    Goldsmith    and    your    Wordsworth    speak 

to  me 
In  tones  and  accents  I  remember  well. 

You  taught  me  that  the  beautiful,  the  best 
Is  worth  alone  Life's  struggle,  that  to  fail, 
Seeking  the  vision  of  a  holy  grail, 
Were  better  than  success  in  common  quest. 

You  taught  not  by  dead  precept,  but  the  breath 
Of  your  rare  spirit  spoke  in  every  tone, 
By  what  you  were,  not  what  you  said  alone, 
And  still  you  speak,  unhushed  by  silent  Death. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


LYRICS 

Great  Pan  Is  Dead 

The  Hermit  Thrush 

My  Mother's  Picture 

The  Fly-by-Night 

We  Thought  Love  Could  Not  Die 

Dame  Fortune 

To  Heedless  Ears 

The  Waves'  Confessional 

The  Flight  of  the  Moth- 

An  Unknown  Poet 

En  Garde,  Messieurs 

A  Legend  of  Breton 

Life's  Underpay 

An  Old- World  Melody 

Sic  Volvere  Parcas 

The  Golden  Milestone 

LIGHT  SONGS 

A  Woman's  Song 

Jack  and  the  Boatswain 

Anchor  and  Topsail 

A  Sad  Story 

In  the  Library 

Thy  Lip  Is  Silent 

One  Day 

A  Rhyme  of  a  Cedar  Shell 

The  Hundred  Yard  Dash 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

The  Hammer  Throw  Page  36 

A  Chance  Shot  37 
THE  MIRROR  OF  PERSITILES 
THE  PHILTER 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  AIRS 

I  Tyed  Kate's  Shoe  61 

At  Phyllis'  Syde  61 

A  Hearte  Contente  62 

A  Clear-Eyed  Cupid  63 

Truth  Sings  Soe  Feebly  64 

Prudence  64 

I  Am  Noe  Judge  66 

Aubado  66 

Serenade  68 
FRENCH  FORMS 

RONDEAUS 

An  Orchard  Lane  7 1 

To  Her  Sweet  Eyes  72 

Two  Roses  73 

When  Love  Grows  Cold  74 

Not  Thee  Alone  75 

That  Meddler,  Death  76 

RONDELS 

A  Thornless  Rose  77 

I  Do  Not  Know  78 

BALLADES 

"A  Woful  Ballad  to  My  Mistress'  Eyebrow"  79 

The  Rectory  Bowling  Green  80 

TRIOLETS 

A  Champagne  Cork  82 

Solitaire  82 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Misnamed  Page  83 

I  Fenced  with  Kate  83 

She  Did  Not  Know  84 

Bleak  84 
SONNETS 

Immortals  87 

The  Ganges  88 

Donna  Perfecta  89 

A  Bas  Relief  of  Mark  Antony  90 

A  Breath  91 

Laura  92 

The  Defense  of  Abbotsford  93 

What's  Done  Is  Done  94 

The  Cross  95 

Like  a  Good  Brahmin  96 

Afterthought  97 

Sleep  98 

Dawn  99 

Dusk  100 


Y     IFE,   LIKE  THE  APPLES  OF  OLD  ISTAKHAR, 

I  >A   FRUIT  HALF  SWEET,  HALF  BITTER-BANED  DOTH  BRING; 
SHADE-CURSED  AND  SUN-CARESSED  BY  TURNS  THEY  WERE; 
SHADE-CURSED   AND  SUN-CARESSED  THE  SONGS  I  SING. 


LYRICS 


GREAT  PAN  IS  DEAD 

GREAT  Pan  is  dead ;  no  longer  stream  or  star 
Shall  hear  his  rough  voice  sounding  loud  and 
far  ; 

No  longer  startled  Echo  multiply 
The  pipe's  shrill  notes  he  blew  so  long  and  high  ; 
Voiceless  is  hill  and  hollow, 
Vacant  the  shore  and  shallow, 
Sadness  and  silence  follow  ;  — 

Great  Pan  is  dead. 

•  « 

The  reeds  upon  the  shelving  river-banks 
Bend  with  the  strong  tide  in  unbroken  ranks ; 
The  fir,  deserted,  drops  a  fragrant  tear 
For  him  who  held  her  ragged  figure  dear  ; 
Voiceless  is  hill  and  hollow, 
Vacant  the  shore  and  shallow, 
Sadness  and  silence  follow ;  — 
Great  Pan  is  dead. 

The  mountain  nymph  no  longer  gaily  mocks 
The  dreamy  shepherd,  piping  to  his  flocks ; 
Gone  from  the  fountain  is  the  naiad's  grace  ; 
No  more  through  green  leaves  smiles  the  dryad's 

face; 

Voiceless  is  hill  and  hollow, 
Vacant  the  shore  and  shallow, 

3 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

Sadness  and  silence  follow  ;  — 
Great  Pan  is  dead. 

At  noisy  noon,  and  in  the  midnight  hush 

We  hear  the  brook's  soft  splash,  the  river's  rush, 

The  wind's  clear  whistle,  and  the  breaker's  fall, 

The  rustling  of  the  leaves  ;  —  but  that  is  all ; 

Voiceless  is  hill  and  hollow, 

Vacant  the  shore  and  shallow, 

Sadness  and  silence  follow  ;  — 

Great  Pan  is  dead. 

We  see  the  light  and  shade  on  vale  and  hill, 
The  foam-flecked  brook,  the  lake  serene  and  still, 
The  waving  branch,  the  blue  wave's  rainbow  wall, 
The  vapor's  changing  shape  j  —  but  that  is  all ; 
Voiceless  is  hill  and  hollow, 
Vacant  the  shore  and  shallow, 
Sadness  and  silence  follow  j  — 
Great  Pan  is  dead. 


THE  HERMIT  THRUSH 

DEEP  in  the  tangled  wild  wood,  where  the  curtain 
Of  branch  and  brier  shuts  out  all  eyes  profane, 
Where  sunbeams  sift,  and  soft  winds  stray  uncertain 
There  is  a  hermitage,  a  secret  fane. 
4 


THE  HERMIT  THRUSH 

From  it  there  lifts  when  each  new  day  is  dawning 
The  sweetest  matin  song  ear  ever  heard, 

Fit  for  an  angel  on  an  Easter  morning, 
Passion  of  praise,  too  heartfelt  for  a  bird. 

The  first  few  minor  notes  are  calm  and  tender  — 
"  O    spheral,    spheral,"  —  wondrous   soft  and 
slow, — 

"  O  holy,  holy,"  —  rising  as  to  render 
The  homage  of  a  heart  with  love  aglow. 

"  O    clear    away,  clear    away,"  —  melody  whose 
rapture, 

Exalted,  unrestrained,  grows  with  each  tone  ; 
"O  clear  up,  clear  up," — lifting  notes  to  capture 

The  listening  ear  of  highest  heaven  alone. 

Then  silence  follows,  dewdrops  globe  and  glisten  ; 

The  sun  mounts  higher,  and  the  earth  grows  dry  ; 
The  wind  is  weary,  yet  I  wait  and  listen 

To  hear  again  that  bird  song  climb  the  sky. 

And  oft  I  think  the  hermit  thrush  still  singeth 
In  tones  too  high  for  my  dull  ears  to  hear ; 

Only  the  lower  notes  my  poor  sense  bringeth ; 
Only  the  prelude  doth  my  heart  hold  dear. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE 

OUT  of  an  oval  frame  there  looks  at  me 
My  mother's  face  ;  a  dawning  womanhood 
Serves  to  enrich  its  girlish  gaiety 

With  earnest  gaze,  dream  of  God's  greater  good. 

The  dark  hair,  primly  parted,  on  each  side 
Falls  with  an  equal  wave,  and  shows  a  brow 

On  which  is  cast  no  cloud  of  care  or  pride  ; 

Peace  and  Content  with  tranquil  thoughts  endow. 

It  looks  at  me  with  clear  and  hopeful  eyes, 
A  question  in  them,  but  no  slightest  hint 

Of  hurried  wonder,  or  of  quick  surprise  ; 

Blue  are  they,  though  the  picture  hath  no  tint. 

The  eyes  tell  not  of  tears,  but  round  the  mouth, 
Half  smiling  though  it  be,  there  is  the  shade 

Of  coming  sorrow ;  just  as  in  the  South, 
On  August  days,  although  no  show  is  made 

Above  the  far  horizon  of  the  sky, 

We  know  that  unseen  clouds  are  clustering  there. 
Then  eighteen  summers  only  had  passed  by, 

And  Sorrow's  wing  had  spread  no  shade  of  care. 


THE  FLY-BY-NIGHT 

Oh,  mother  of  my  boyhood,  though  your  glance 
And  smile  are  memories  of  the  "  long  ago ;  " 

Though  life's  harsh  college,  and  the  world's  mis 
chance 
Have  taught  me  much  I  wish  I  did  not  know, 

Yet  still  I  hold  your  lessons  in  my  heart, — 
A  faith  in  God,  in  perfect  womanhood, 

In  mine  own  self,  despite  the  baser  part, 
In  dawning  truth,  and  a  triumphant  good. 

I  look  upon  your  tender  face  to-night 

Through  tears  that  well,  although  they  will  not 

fall, 
Around  your  head  there  shines  the  sacred  light, 

You  are  my  saint,  would  I  could  tell  you  all. 


THE  FLY-BY-NIGHT 

WHEN  the  night-capped  world  is  dreaming, 
Deadly  silent,  save  the  screaming 
Of  the  hooded  owl, 
Of  the  staring  owl ; 

When  naught  stirs  o'er  moorland  lonely 
But  the  bat's  winged  fingers  only, 
I  fly,  a  Fly-by-night. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

When  beneath  the  rectory  willow 
Snores  the  parson  on  his  pillow, 
And  the  ivied  church, 
And  the  frowning  church 
Lifting  high  its  cross  topped  spire, 
Threats  my  soul  with  warnings  dire, 
I  fly,  a  Fly-by-night. 

Then  my  red-eyed  ingle  leaving, 
Filled  with  joy  too  great  for  grieving, 
On  my  ragged  broom, 
On  my  witch-elm  broom, 
Muttering  spells,  and  rising  slowly 
Over  churchyard,  hoar  and  holy, 
I  fly,  a  Fly-by-night. 

Through  the  mist  and  shadow  rushing, 

Through  the  cloud's  wet  curtain  brushing, 

Where  the  mistress  moon, 

Where  the  maddening  moon 

Shines  undimmed,  in  perfect  brightness, 

Filling  all  the  air  with  whiteness, 

I  fly,  a  Fly-by-night. 

Church,  and  cross,  and  cloud  below  me, 
Free  at  last,  I  wildly  throw  me 
On  the  cold  night  winds, 
On  the  moonlit  winds, 
8 


THE  FLY-BY-NIGHT 

Till  the  quick  pulse-beats  of  gladness 
Fill  my  brain  with  welcome  madness, 
I  fly,  a  Fly-by-night. 

But  at  last,  the  envious  morning 

Lifts  its  first  faint  beam  of  warning 

In  the  glaring  East, 

In  the  hateful  East ; 

Double  speed  my  fear  then  lending, 

Through  the  cloud's  dark  folds  descending, 

I  fly,  a  Fly-by-night. 

Over  wood,  and  moor,  and  meadow, 

Where  there  lurks  the  deepest  shadow, 

Where  the  lone  were-wolf, 

Where  the  mad  were-wolf 

Howls  with  glee,  his  leering  laughter 

On  the  black  winds  following  after, 

I  fly,  a  Fly-by-night. 

But,  when  shivering  by  my  fire, 

Frights  me  most  the  tall  church  spire, 

And  the  pointing  cross, 

And  the  warning  cross 

Haunts  me  with  its  sacred  story, 

When  no  more  in  moon-mad  glory, 

I  fly,  a  Fly-by-night. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

WE   THOUGHT    LOVE    COULD    NOT 
DIE 

LOVE  lay  adying  at  the  eventide ; 
The  Western  oriel  shed  a  waning  light, 
Love's  tender  flush  was  paling  into  night, 
And  dim  and  wandering  was  his  fading  sight, — 
We  thought  Love  could  not  die. 

Love  lay  adying  at  the  eventide  ; 
The  flame  burnt  low,  and  deeper  grew  the  chill, 
The  flying  Wind  was  calling,  loud  and  shrill ; 
But  Love's  torn  wings  were  lying, weak  and  still, — 
We  thought  Love  could  not  die. 

Love  lay  adying  at  the  eventide ; 
We  watched  the  drifting  shadows  fill  the  room, 
We  waited,  white-faced,  in  the  gathering  gloom  ; 
One  April  day,  beneath  the  orchard  bloom, 
We  thought  Love  could  not  die. 

DAME  FORTUNE 

IF  you  wish  to  win  Fortuna's  warmest  smile, 
If  you  wish  the  fickle  goddess  to  beguile, 
Do  not  kneel,  and  sigh,  and  languish  ! 
IO 


DAME  FORTUNE 

Though  your  longing  grow  to  anguish, 
Yet  her  golden  smile  you  '11  lose, 
And  her  favor  she  '11  refuse  : 
She  were  no  woman,  else. 

Do  not  beg  the  jade  to  listen  to  your  prayer 
With  a  downcast  eye,  and  with  a  doubtful  air. 
She  will  promise  you,  —  "To-morrow," 
But  with  empty  hands  you  '11  sorrow, 
And  her  golden  smile  you  '11  lose, 
And  her  favor  she  '11  refuse  : 
She  were  no  woman,  else. 

Do  not  stand  before  her  like  a  witless  mute, 

Do  not  wear  a  drooping  plume,  a  somber  suit ; 

She  loves  not  the  modest  fellow, 

Nor  a  face  demure  and  yellow ; 

And  her  golden  smile  you  '11  lose, 

And  her  favor  she  '11  refuse  : 

She  were  no  woman,  else. 

If  you  wish  to  win  Fortuna's  warmest  smile 

If  you  wish  the  fickle  goddess  to  beguile, 

Pass  her  by,  serenely  careless, 

With  a  laughing  face  and  fearless ; 

You  can  have  whate'er  you  choose, 

She  can  naught  to  you  refuse  : 

She  were  no  woman,  else. 

ii 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

Ask  her  nothing,  have  no  wish,  no  strong  desire  ; 

Let  no  earnest  purpose  show  its  eager  fire ; 

Hid  'neath  jest,  and  joke,  and  folly, 

Hid  'neath  jovial  face  and  jolly  ; 

You  can  have  whate'er  you  choose, 

She  can  naught  to  you  refuse  : 

She  were  no  woman,  else. 

She  will  cast  her  globe  and  whirling  wheel  away, 
Doff  her  shoes,  and  ever  with  you  stay ; 
Warm  with  smiles,  and  load  with  kindness, 
If  you  take  it  all  in  blindness ; 
You  can  have  whate'er  you  choose, 
She  can  naught  to  you  refuse : 
She  were  no  woman,  else. 


TO  HEEDLESS  EARS 

HE  speaks  of  "  Death," 
An  idle  breath  : 

With  laughing  heart,  the  round-cheeked  lad 
Looks  at  the  preacher,  no  whit  sad  ; 
Throbbing  with  life,  in  rainbow  streams 
The  sunlight  through  the  window  gleams  ; 
The  boy,  with  brown  fist  clutching  tight, 
Plays  with  a  ray  of  purple  light ; 


12 


TO  HEEDLESS  EARS 

He  sees  the  green  elm  branch,  outside, 
Lift  with  the  fresh  wind's  rising  tide ; 
Its  whispers  join  the  locust's  hum 
To  make  the  fervent  preacher  dumb ; 
Life's  thousand  voices  interfere, 
"  Life  "  echoes  in  his  careless  ear  : 
Why  waste  good  breath 
To  talk  of  «  Death  "  ? 

He  speaks  of  "  Life," 
A  foolish  strife : 

For  weary  are  the  old  man's  eyes, 
Weary  the  wrinkled  hand  that  lies 
Nerveless  upon  his  shrunken  knee ; 
He  cares  not  for  such  words,  not  he ; 
Dead  leaves  join  with  the  winter  rain 
To  lash  the  frosty  window  pane ; 
The  elm  tree,  with  its  vacant  nest, 
Waves  o'er  the  village  dead,  at  rest ; 
O'er  empty  vale,  and  bald,  gray  hill 
The  wind  is  sweeping,  cold  and  shrill ; 
The  wind  lifts  up  its  mournful  breath, 
And  murmurs  to  the  old  man, "  Death 
Why  talk  of  "  Life," 
A  foolish  strife  ? 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


THE  WAVES'  CONFESSIONAL 

THE  billows  up  the  broad  bay  crawl  and  creep, 
With  white  locks  o'er  bowed  shoulders  stream 
ing  far, 
And  faltering,  confess  in  whispers  deep 

Their  sins  of  passion  and  their  deeds  of  war ; 

While  hermit  pines,  in  somber  mantles  clad, 

Bend  from  the  cliffs  with  ceaseless  sob  and  sigh, 

And  shrive  the  penitents,  with  arms  outspread, 
Ere  on  the  saffron  shore  they  fall  and  die. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  MOTH 

T^LITTING,  one  night,  through  the  branches, 

-T  Spying  a  bright  light  afar, 

A  moth  on  his  feeble  wings  launches, 

Bound  on  a  voyage  to  a  star, 

A  voyage  to  a  glimmering  star  : 
Under  the  mist  and  the  cloud 
The  silk-worm  is  spinning  his  shroud. 

Softly  the  night  wind  is  breathing, 
Only  a  sob  and  a  sigh  ; 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  MOTH 


Bravely  the  white  moth  is  wreathing 
His  tremulous  flight  toward  the  sky, 
His  flight  toward  the  pitiless  sky : 
Under  the  mist  and  the  cloud 
The  silk-worm  is  spinning  his  shroud. 

Struggling  till  morning  is  breaking, 
Fast  fades  the  moth's  feeble  sight ; 

Strength,  but  not  courage  forsaking, 
He  dies,  far  away  from  the  light, 
Far  from  his  star's  fading  light : 

Under  the  mist  and  the  cloud 

The  silk-worm  is  spinning  his  shroud. 

Grant,  oh  ye  gods,  but  the  flying 
Up  from  the  shadows  afar  j 

The  struggle,  the  failure,  the  dying 
For  love  of  a  far-distant  star, 
A  perfectly  beautiful  star, 

And,  under  the  mist  and  the  cloud 

The  siik-worm  may  spin  at  his  shroud. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


AN  UNKNOWN  POET 

HIS  name  or  title  we  shall  never  know, 
All  he  has  left  us  are  the  words  we  see ; 
The  few  rare  words,  his  spirit's  overflow, 

Tender,  and  sweet,  and  quaint  to  fantasy ; 
Fresh  from  a  soul  of  mellow  kindliness, 
We  love,  although  we  have  no  name  to  bless. 

Mid  green  fields,  yellow  sands,  with  oar  or  plough, 
In  inland  town,  or  village  by  the  sea, 

We  know  not  where  he  dwelt,  we  know  not  how 
His  soul  grew  large  with  poesy's  ecstasy  ; 

He  sang,  unfevered  by  Ambition's  breath, 

Along  a  hidden  pathway  down  to  death. 

He  lived,  loved,  labored  ;  saw  suns  rise  and  set ; 

Drank  in  the  morning  breeze  ;  he  heard  the  lark, 
And  breathed  the  fragrance  of  the  violet ; 

He  sinned  and  suffered  ;  groping  in  the  dark, 
He  strove,  with  changing  purpose,  to  fulfil 
Some  fancied  destiny  of  good,  or  ill. 


16 


EN  GARDE,  MESSIEURS 


EN  GARDE,  MESSIEURS 

EN  garde,  Messieurs,  too  long  have  I  endured, 
Too    long  with    patience    borne    the   world's 

rebuff; 

Now  he  who  shoulders  me  shall  find  me  rough ; 
The  weakness  of  an  easy  soul  is  cured. 

I  've  shouted,  leathern-lunged,  when  fame  or  gold 
Were  won  by  others,  turned  to  aid  my  friend ;  — 
Dull  pated  ever, —  but  such  follies  end; 
Only  a  fool 's  content,  and  in  the  cold. 

My  doublet  is  in  tatters,  and  my  purse 
Waves  in  the  wind,  light  as  my  lady's  fan ; 
Only  my  sword  is  bright ;  with  it  I  plan 
To  win  success,  or  put  my  sword  to  nurse. 

I  wait  no  longer  for  the  primal  blow, 
Henceforth  my  stroke  is  first,  I  give  offense  ; 
I  claim  no  more  an  over-dainty  sense, 
I  brook  no  blocking  where  I  plan  to  go. 

En  garde,  Messieurs,  and  if  my  hand  is  hard, 
Remember  I  've  been  buffeted  at  will ; 
I  am  a  whit  impatient,  and  't  is  ill 
To  cross  a  hungry  dog,  Messieurs,  en  garde. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRETON 

THERE  is  a  cliff  upon  the  Breton  coast, 
From  which  Tradition  says  a  fisher  lass, 
Left  by  her  noble  lover,  sprang  to  death 

Among  the  white  waves  at  its  hollow  base  ; 

That  her  sad  spirit,  unconfessed,  unshriven, 
Forever  floats  upon  the  troubled  wave  ; 

Her  guilty  soul  in  vain  forgiveness  begs, 

Though  countless  tides  have  washed  her  shift 
ing  grave. 

And  maidens,  watching  from  the  lofty  cliff 

On  moonlight  nights  can  see  a  pale,  sweet  face 

Lift  on  the  breakers  as  they  thunder  in, 

And  hear  the  hopeless  prayers  for  rest  and  peace. 

Can  hear  her  call,  "  Noel,  Noel,  Noel," 

In  accents  soft  with  love's  unchanging  grace  ; 

Can  see  white  arms  uplifted  from  the  waves, 
As  if  to  clasp  him  in  their  cold  embrace. 

Then  backward  borne  upon  the  ebbing  wave, 
A  piercing  cry  rings  clear  upon  the  air  ; 

The  hopeless  face  is  hidden  by  the  spray, 

And  naught  is  heard  save  meanings  of  despair. 

18 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRETON 


Beneath  a  richly  sculptured  tomb 

A  noble  lord  doth  rest ; 
His  faithless  soul,  well  shriven,  is  clean 

And  quiet  in  his  breast. 

From  his  snug  grave  in  holy  ground 

No  restless  spirit  stalks ; 
Along  the  broad  cathedral  aisles 

No  anxious  shadow  walks. 

No  sound  disturbs  the  holy  calm ; 

Naught  stirs  the  heavy  air 
But  mellow  voices  chanting  low, 

And  solemn  words  of  prayer. 

While  through  the  windows,  saint  bedecked, 

The  loving  sunbeams  shine, 
Shedding  upon  the  sculptured  tomb 

A  halo  most  divine ; 

And  from  the  spotless  marble  gleams, 

In  letters  deep  and  bright,  — 
"  Here  lies  Noel,  who  li/ed  and  died 
A  brave  and  stainless  knight." 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


LIFE'S  UNDERPAY 

IF  life  be  but  getting,  and  keeping ; 
The  having,  the  holding,  the  creeping 
O'er  dusty  ways, 

To  gain  the  red  gold,  and  to  measure 
By  cost,  comfort,  friendship,  and  pleasure  — 
To  do  what  pays, 

Then  life  will  I  lose  for  the  asking, 
Its  guerdon  pays  not  for  its  tasking, 

Pain,  and  distress. 

I  '11  leave  the  sharp  stones  of  the  highway, 
And  avoid,  in  some  grass-covered  byway, 

Life's  weariness. 


AN  OLD-WORLD  MELODY 

FROM  the  whistling  reed  of  a  shepherd  lad 
Flew  some  random  notes,  one  day ; 
They  were  fresh  as  the  meadow  flowers,  and  glad 
As  a  meadow  brook  in  May. 

They  were  sweet  with  the  breath  of  the  Southern 

breeze, 

They  were  warm  with  the  glowing  sun, 
2O 


AN  OLD-WORLD  MELODY 

And  the  shepherd  lay  in  the  shade,  at  ease, 
And  played  them  till  day  was  done. 

'T  was  a  farmer's  lass  learned  the  self-same  air, — 
Though  from  whom  she  would  not  tell, — 

And  she  found  some  words,  —  though  I  know  not 

where, — 
Which  the  music  mated  well. 

But  alas,  as  she  through  her  garden  ran, 

Singing,  one  day  in  June, 
By  the  hawthorne  hedge  rode  a  serving-man, 

And  he  stole  both  words  and  tune. 

So  from  lip  to  listener,  the  sweet  notes  flew 

On  the  wind's  inconstant  tide, 
The  blue  seas  over,  the  broad  lands  through, 

They  were  scattered  far  and  wide. 

By  the  cradle  sung,  at  the  village  dance  ; 

'Neath  the  lover's  soft  moonlight ; 
With  the  heaving  plough,  at  the  loom  perchance, 

By  the  watchman  crooned  at  night. 

So  the  song  lived  on,  and  the  silent  years 

Its  accents  could  not  still, 
And  at  last  it  reached  a  musician's  ears, 

A  master  of  magic  skill. 

21 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

And  he  penned  the  notes  on  the  parchment  page, 

And  he  took  them  as  the  theme 
Of  a  symphony,  in  his  golden  age, 

As  the  motive  of  his  dream. 

And  the  great  world  heard,  and  the  world  grew 
glad, 

And  its  praise  was  quick  and  grand, 
Yet  it  found  no  trace  of  the  shepherd  lad, 

Or  the  pipe  in  the  shepherd's  hand. 

But  I  catch  the  sound  of  the  hollow  reed, 

As  it  whistles,  clear  and  free  ; 
And  the  orchestra  I  no  longer  heed, 

And,  despite  the  crowd  I  see 

A  shepherd  lad,  on  a  green  hill  side, 

As  he  pipes  the  simple  air, 
And  a  maid  who  sings  with  honest  pride 

From  a  throat  untouched  by  care. 


SIC  VOLVERE  PARCAS 

TROJAN  ./Eneas,  checked  by  gods  and  men, 
'Gainst  thwarting  winds,  upon  a  hostile  sea, 
Still  labors  on,  his  promised  Rome  to  gain, 
Serene,  for  thus  the  changeless  fates  decree. 
22 


SIC  VOLVERE  PARCAS 

But  I  know  not  my  fate ;  no  Sybil  tells 

That   my   frail  bark  shall  e'er   reach    Latium 
shores ; 

And  when  the  ocean  round  me  fiercely  swells, 
And  in  my  ears  the  tempest  hoarsely  roars, 

When  I  discern  brave  vessels  on  the  rocks, 
Their  oak  ribs  bleaching  'neath  an  alien  sun, 

And  sturdy  barks,  o'ercome  by  tempest  shocks, 
Sink  by  my  side,  their  distant  ports  unwon, 

Into  my  heart  there  creeps  the  chilling  fear 

That  Death's  black  wave  may  close  above  my 
deck; 

And  though  Italian  shores  rise  fair  and  near, 
My  life  may  end  in  failure  and  in  wreck. 

But  steadfastly  I  trim  my  ragged  sail, 

And  ceaselessly  I  labor  at  the  oar ; 
Dim  stars  revealing  through  the  blinding  gale 

The  nearness  of  that  golden  sanded  shore 

Whose  winds  are  soft,  whose  skies  are  warm  and 
kind  ; 

To  that  fair  land  I  hope  at  last  to  come ; 
Among  its  laurel  groves  I  hope  to  find 

My  gods  a  temple,  and  myself  a  home. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


THE  GOLDEN  MILESTONE 

HAPLESS  the  foot  beyond  whose  best  endeavor 
No  golden  milestone  lifteth,  far  ahead ; 
Hapless  the  eye  before  whose  sight  forever 
No  misty  vision  in  the  West  is  spread. 

Hapless  the  heart  which  no  desire  swelleth 

Beyond  its  utmost  power  to  fulfil; 
Hapless  the  soul  in  which  no  purpose  dwelleth, 

Unfinished,  when  the  empty  breast  is  still. 


LIGHT  SONGS 


A  WOMAN'S  SONG 

A  PAGE  marched  down  the  street, 
Singing  the  song  of  a  warrior  bold ; 
He  squared  his  shoulders,  and  loudly  told 
Of  war,  and  knightly  feat ;  — 
This  little  page,  with  his  mistress'  note 
Tucked  safe  away  in  his  velvet  coat. 

He  met  a  steel-clad  knight, 

Facing  the  sun,  with  his  visor  high, 

And  he  was  crooning  a  lullaby 

That  mothers  sing  at  night ; 

And  all  the  time  clashed  his  dinted  shield, 

And  sword,  fresh-notched  on  an  angry  field. 

The  page,  he  pondered  long, 

And  oft  looked  back,  with  a  wondering  eye  ; 

"  P  faith,"  said  he,  "  but  I  wonder  why 

He  sings  a  woman's  song." 

The  knight  rode  on  to  his  fair,  sweet  dame, 

And  the  little  laddie  who  lisped  his  name. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


JACK  AND  THE  BOATSWAIN 

THE  wind  blows  freshly  from  the  land, 
The  ship  swings  in  the  bay ; 
Adown  the  shrouds  a  sunbeam  slides ; 

The  waves  flash  back  the  day ; 
The  boatswain  pipes  a  merry  tune, 

With  "  Heave-ho,  lads,  yeo  heave  !  " 
But  Jack  looks,  with  a  heavy  heart 
At  the  tear-drops  on  his  sleeve. 

The  whirling  windlass  clearly  rings, 

A  chime  of  silver  bells ; 
And  strong,  and  free,  the  favoring  tide 

To  open  ocean  swells ; 
The  boatswain  turns  his  brawny  back 

On  the  good  land  we  leave  : 
But  Jack  looks,  with  a  tender  heart 

At  the  tear-drops  on  his  sleeve. 


ANCHOR  AND  TOPSAIL 

WHEN  snug  in  the  harbor  the  anchor  I  love, 
The  anchor,  fast  fluked  in  the  sand ; 
I  look  not  to  seaward,  I  look  not  aloft, 
But  I  watch  precious  close  at  the  land  ; 
28 


A  SAD  STORY 

For  there  lives  in  a  cottage,  far  up  on  the  hill, 

Little  Katie,  a  sweet  sailor's  bride ; 
Though  she  swears  when  I  'm  absent  she  's  true  to 
me  still, 

I  feel  safe  only  when  by  her  side. 
The  anchor  I  love,  and  the  topsail  I  hate, 
When  snug  in  the  harbor,  in  sight  of  sweet  Kate. 

But  when  "  homeward  bound,"  't  is  the  topsail   1 
love, 

The  topsail,  way  up  in  the  blue ; 
It  pulls  "  like  a  horse  "  at  each  puff  of  the  wind, 

As  if  every  thread  of  it  knew 
How  mad  was  my  longing,  how  harried  my  heart 

By  the  terrors  of  distance  and  doubt. 
Each  tug  bears  me  nearer  the  port  of  my  soul, 

The  window  where  Katie  looks  out. 
The  topsail  I  love,  and  the  anchor  I  hate, 
When  bound  for  the  harbor  that  shelters  sweet 
Kate. 

A  SAD  STORY 

OVER  my  knee,  to  her  place  on  my  arm, 
Clambers  my  little  maid,  calm  and  content. 
Sure  is  she  now  there  's  no  power  can  harm, 
Sure  that  the  last  wave  of  trouble  is  spent. 
Pushing  her  brown  tresses  back  from  her  brow, 

29 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

She  says,  "  Dear  Papa,  please  to  tell  me  now 
A  sad  story." 

I  tell  her  my  tales  of  the  long,  long  ago, 
Wonderful  stories  of  fairy  and  gnome ; 

Big  grow  her  eyes,  and  her  cheeks  all  aglow, 
Following  the  sailor  boy  over  the  foam, 

Following  the  red  sun  out  into  the  West ; 

Yet  she  sighs  and  she  says,  "  But  you  know  I  like 
best 

A  sad  story." 

Why  must  her  story  be  touched  with  the  tears  ? 

Why  must  its  troubles  ensadden  her  heart  ? 
Sorrow  unfeigned  will  be  brought  by  the  years, 

Joy  and  content  with  the  years  must  depart. 
God  grant  her  ever  the  same  cloudless  eye. 
God  grant  that  her  life  tale  may  not  supply 
A  sad  story. 

IN  THE  LIBRARY 

I  HAD  a  volume  of  Spanish  verse, 
She  was  intrenched  behind 
Bristling  bastions  of  ponderous  books, 
Reading  with  earnest  mind. 

3° 


THY  LIP  IS  SILENT 

Only  the  table  between  us  stretched  ; 

Was  it  the  verse  I  read  ? 
Surely  't  was  strange  how,  in  that  dull  place 

Fancies  fumed  in  my  head. 

She  was  a  maiden  of  old  Castile, 

Held  in  a  castle  tall  ; 
I  was  a  knight,  who  across  the  plain 

Rode  to  the  castle  wall. 

Over  the  table  my  charger  flew, 

Riding  a  league  or  more, 
I  stormed  the  castle,  and  far  away 

Donna  Inez  I  bore. 

Little  Miss  Cabot,  with  calm  blue  eyes, 

Still  read  her  dust-dry  theme, 
Safe  her  intrenchment  of  books  behind, 

When  I  awoke  from  mv  dream. 


THY  LIP  IS  SILENT 

THY  lip  is  silent,  for  its  speech  is  lent 
To  make  thy  dark  eye  doubly  eloquent. 
I  would  not  wonder  at  so  warm  a  glance 
From  Cadiz  lattice,  and  in  sunny  France 
I  've  seen  its  sister  at  a  vineyard  dance. 

31 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

But  here,  sweet  Ruth,  beneath  New  England  skies, 

It  is  exotic,  and  a  rare  surprise, 

Thy  Quaker  bonnet,  with  its  sheltering  brim, 

Serves  as  an  ambush,  dangerous  and  dim ; 

I  thought  thine  only  glance  was  cold  and  prim. 

You  ope  your  lips,  and  gravely  say  me  nay ; 
But  when  your  dark  eyes  flash  a  certain  yea,     ^ 
In  language  current  all  the  wide  world  o'er, 
I  were  a  fool  indeed  to  set  much  store 
By  what  your  lips,  the  traitors,  said  before. 

I  swear  they  shall  do  penance  for  their  sin ; 
I  wonder  if  a  bold  assault  would  win  ; 
I  like  not  lengthened  siege  ;  say,  shall  I  try  ? 
Thy  lip  says  "  nay,"  but  in  thy  truer  eye, 
I  read  the  kiss  is  mine  which  you  deny. 


ONE  DAY 

OH  there 's  many  a  March,  and  many  a  May, 
And  many  a  chill  December ; 
But  there  's  but  one  June,  it  hath  one  day, 
And  that  I  well  remember. 

Oh  there  's  many  a  road  without  a  crook, 
There  's  many  a  royal  river ; 

32 


A  RHYME  OF  A  CEDAR  SHELL 

But  there  's  but  one  path,  and  but  one  brook 
O'er  which  the  aspens  quiver. 

Oh  there  's  many  a  dame  with  rounded  throat, 

And  many  a  maid  that 's  merry ; 
But  there  's  but  one  girl  on  whom  I  dote, — 

*T  is  Katie  of  old  Kerry. 


A  RHYME  OF  A  CEDAR  SHELL 

THE  full  moon  shines  and  shimmers ; 
The  bay,  as  smooth  as  glass, 
Spreads  like  a  silver  mirror 

Before  a  comely  lass  ; 
Unbroken,  save  where  swiftly 

Our  sharp  shell  cuts  its  way ; 
And  four  broad  blades  grasp  firmly, 
And  sweep  its  calm  away. 

The  wide  bay  nears  and  narrows ; 

Among  the  shadows  deep 
Which  'neath  the  long  bridge  cluster, 

We  quickly  slide  and  sweep 
To  where  the  winding  river 

Shines  clear  before  our  sight, 
With  one  bank  glooming  darkly, 

And  one  serene  and  bright. 


33 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

Against  the  tide  we  struggle  ; 

We  feel  its  sullen  strength, 
And  glory  as  we  part  it 

And  win  each  hard  boat-length ; 
Until,  warned  by  the  moonbeams, 

Which  cast  a  lengthened  shade, 
We  turn  our  sharp  bow  homeward, 

Borne  swift  by  tide  and  blade. 

Upon  our  fevered  temples 

The  wind's  cool  fingers  rest, 
Among  our  bare  locks  tremble , 

And  on  each  laboring  breast; 
While,  fast  and  faster  gliding, 

Once  more  we  reach  the  bay, 
Whose  rippling  waters  gladly 

The  rising  wind  obey. 

At  last  we  reach  the  boat-house, 

And  from  the  level  float 
Upon  our  heaving  shoulders 

We  bear  our  dripping  boat ; 
In  her  white  wraps  we  fold  her, 

And  stack  each  well-tried  oar, 
The  huge  doors  close  on  darkness, 

Our  swift  night  row  is  o'er. 


34 


THE  HUNDRED  YARD  DASH 


THE  HUNDRED  YARD  DASH 

GIVE  me  a  race  that  is  run  in  a  breath, 
Straight  from  the  start  to  the  "  tape  " ; 
Distance  hath  charms,  but  a  "  Ding  Dong  "  means 

death, 
Death  without  flowers  and  crape, 

"  On  your  mark,"  "  Set,"  for  a  moment  we  strain, 

Held  by  a  leash  all  unseen  ; 
"  P'ff,"  we  are  off,  from  the  pistol  we  gain 

Yards,  if  the  starter  's  not  keen. 

Off  like  lean  greyhounds,  the  cinders  scarce  stir 

Under  the  touch  of  our  feet ; 
Flashes  of  sunlight,  the  crowd's  muffled  purr, 

The  rush  of  the  wind,  warm  and  sweet. 

One  last  fierce  effort,  the  red  worsted  breaks, 

Struggle  and  strain  are  all  past ; 
Only  ten  ticks  of  the  watch,  but  it  makes 

First,  second,  third,  and  the  last. 


35 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


THE  HAMMER  THROW 

WE  are  the  children  of  the  strong  god,  Thor ; 
We  hurl  his  hammer  through  the  hollow  sky, 
No  task  is  this  for  feeble  hands  to  try ; 
This  is  the  sport  that  men  and  gods  adore. 

A  giant  race  are  we,  who  each  in  turn, 
Step  in  the  magic  circle's  narrow  ring, 
Around  our  heads  the  old  god's  hammer  swing, 
And  send  it  whirling  where  the  sunbeams  burn. 

Our  fingers  twine  the  handle  tightly  round  ; 
Firm  as  a  mountain  oak  we  plant  our  feet ; 
With  one  long  breath,  filling  each  cell  complete, 
We  lift  and  swing  the  dead  weight  from  the  ground. 

Around  our  heads  we  swing  with  quickening  speed, 
The  hot  blood  pressing  in  each  swollen  vein, 
Each  muscle  corded  with  its  mighty  strain, 
The  handle  bending  like  a  river-reed. 

A  step,  a  turn,  and  staggering,  we  hurl 
The  heavy  hammer,  whistling  through  the  air ; 
We  watch  it  in  the  sunbeams  fly  and  flare  j 
We  see  it  settle,  with  a  thud  and  whirl. 


A  CHANCE  SHOT 


All  cannot  win  ;  our  giant  game  is  o'er  ; 
'T  is  better  to  be  last  in  such  a  test, 
Then  in  a  little  sport  to  rank  the  best ; 
We  are  the  children  of  the  strong  god,  Thor. 


A  CHANCE  SHOT 

I  SHOT  an  hundred  arrows  carefully, 
And  hit  not  once  the  disk  of  yellow  gold ; 
I  pierced  it  after,  shooting  fast  and  free, 
With  hurried  aim  an  arrow  bent  and  old. 

In  vain  I  labored  with  an  earnest  pen 
To  tell  the  truth  a  sunlit  second  found; 

Long  after  came  a  careless  mood,  and  then 
A  few  fit  words  the  prisoned  truth  unbound. 


37 


.- 


THE  MIRROR  OF  PERSITILES 


THE  MIRROR  OF  PERSITILES 

CLOSE  drawn  before  my  hearthstone's  cheer 
ful  flame, 

(A  boon  companion,  and  a  loving  dame 
To  one  whom  Fortune,  and  the  "  Sisters  Three  " 
An  unblessed,  solitary  life  decree,) 

I  sat,  in  calm  content,  one  dreamy  night, 
Watching  the  ceaseless  play  of  ruddy  light 
Upon  an  antique  mirror  in  my  hand, 
Its  silver  disk  framed  in  a  silver  band, 

While  on  the  graceful  handle,  richly  wrought 

In  all  the  beauty  of  unhurried  art, 

Cupid,  entangled,  struggled  to  unwind 

A  net  of  rose  vines  round  his  soft  limbs  twined. 

I  blessed  the  foolish  knave  I  had  cajoled 
To  change  his  treasure  for  its  weight  in  gold, 
And  then,  in  pensive  mood,  my  thoughts  ran  back 
Along  the  dim  trail  on  Time's  grass-grown  track 

To  the  Epirus  mine,  from  whose  deep  core 
The  patient  slave  had  torn  the  virgin  ore ; 
To  old  Persitiles,  who,  wondering,  scanned 
The  silver  surface,  brightening  in  his  hand, 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

And  with  skilled  fingers,  in  untiring  care 
Wrought,  cautiously,  the  carving,  quaint  and  rare, 
Beneath  the  warm  light  of  Italian  skies, 
When  Art  was  young,  and  saw  with  undimmed 
eyes. 

And  then  I  questioned,  in  a  dreamy  mood, 
How  many  myriad  faces  had  been  viewed 
Within  the  mirror  since  it  left  his  hand 
Who  wrought  it,  long  ago,  in  that  old  land, 

Child,  maiden,  matron,  sad  and  dim-eyed  age, 
How  many,  from  the  mirror's  truthful  page, 
With  joy  or  sorrow,  tears  or  smiles,  had  read 
Of  growing  charms,  and  youthful  beauty  fled. 

My  thoughts  were  with  the  firelight  growing  dim, 
Yet,  now  and  then,  bright  with  a  transient  gleam, 
And  I  was  wondering  if  the  face  were  fair 
Which,  first  of  all,  was  mirrored  there. 

When,  suddenly,  as  if  an  alchemist 
Had  o'er  the  mirror  breathed,  a  golden  mist 
Obscured  the  silver  luster,  and  there  grew, 
First  dim  and  vague,  then  clearer  to  my  view, 

A  face,  a  wondrous  face,  sun-kissed,  yet  fair, 
Rich  from  the  friendship  of  the  light  and  air, 

42 


THE   MIRROR  OF  PERSITILES 

And  with  great  gladness  in  the  glorious  eyes 
That  freely  met  mine  own,  without  surprise. 

Among  her  dusky  tresses,  jewels  gleamed 
In  added  luster,  and  her  broad  brow  seemed, 
Unfurrowed  by  the  touch  of  Care  or  Shame, 
Yet  fairer,  in  the  tresses'  ebon  frame. 

And  I,  scarce  breathing,  sans  all  sense  but  sight, 
Looked  in  her  eyes,  and  felt  their  tender  light ; 
Watched,  breathless,  when  her  smile  awoke  and 

crept 
Out  of  her  rounded  cheek,  where  it  had  slept. 

Her  lips  grew  tremulous,  as  if  to  speak, 
The  waves  of  color  rose  to  brow  and  cheek ; 
Her  very  glance  was  love,  no  word  could  tell 
Her  love  and  longing  to  me  half  so  well. 

She  was  my  very  own,  at  once  the  whole 
Unquestioned  truth  was  radiant  in  my  soul ; 
Threading  the  years,  out  of  the  misty  past 
She  had  come  down  to  meet  my  soul  at  last. 

I  tried  to  speak,  when  suddenly  the  face 
Went  floating  from  me  into  cloudy  space, 
The  eyes  were  lusterless,  the  smile  grew  dim, 
Then  lost  in  distance,  and  a  sudden  gleam 

43 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

Shot  from  the  hearthstone  by  a  falling  brand, 
Revealed  the  antique  mirror  in  my  hand, 
Reflecting  nothing  in  its  silver  disk, 
But  my  own  face,  fixed  like  a  basilisk. 

Oft  have  I  prayed  the  gods  would  give  me  grace 
To  gaze  once  more,  but  once,  upon  her  face, 
That  once  again,  but  once,  the  mist  might  rise, 
And  I  might  look  again  into  her  eyes. 

That  once  again  her  lips  might  slowly  part 
To  smile  away  the  longing  in  my  heart. 
Within  the  mirror's  disk  I  long,  in  vain, 
Have  searched  to  see  her  face  again. 

But,  in  my  heart,  I  know  that  I  shall  see 
My  old-world  love,  that  she  will  come  to  me, 
Somewhere,  sometime  ;  it  may  be  soon  or  late ; 
To  one  who  dreams  it  is  not  long  to  wait. 


44 


THE   PHILTER 


THE  PHILTER 

I 

AN  arrant  witch,  with  an  evil  eye, 
Dwelt  'neath  the  lid  of  a  Yorkshire  sky ; 
Wild,  rough,  and  windy,  the  purple  moor 
That  rolled  its  waves  'round  her  cottage  door ; 

Gloomy  and  grewsome  the  tangled  braid 
Of  brush  and  brier,  that  cast  its  shade 
Around  her  thatch,  and  upon  the  air 
Streamed  like  long  locks  of  her  elfish  hair. 

No  woodman  rested  his  heavy  load 

When  she  was  watching  the  moorland  road, 

Or  priest  or  preacher,  in  saintly  black, 

They  looked  not  up,  and  they  looked  not  back 

Till  rolling  hill,  or  the  gathering  night, 
The  witch's  cottage  concealed  from  sight ; 
Many  an  Ave^  and  hurried  prayer 
Sought  heaven  at  sight  of  her  evil  stare. 

Sometimes,  made  bold  by  the  tavern  cheer, 
O'er  steaming  Hollands,  or  foaming  beer, 
When  tales  were  told,  and  when  songs  were  sung, 
A  boasting  blade,  with  a  loosened  tongue 

47 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

Might  breathe  a  threat  'gainst  "  that  arrant  witch,' 
And  talk  of  the  "  ducking-stool,"  and  switch  ; 
But  when,  home  bound  on  the  lonely  moor, 
He  'd  spur  his  horse  by  the  witch's  door. 


II 


Anthony  Holt  was  a  stalwart  lout, 

Bashful,  and  silent,  who  hung  about 

The  tavern  door,  when  the  nights  were  warm, 

The  tavern  fire  in  cold  or  storm. 

Furtively  watching  the  barmaid  pass 
From  bar  to  settle ;  no  comelier  lass 
E'er  lifted  pewter ;  not  fair  and  pale  — 
A  tavern  Hebe,  who  served  good  ale. 

A  Hebe,  aproned  in  spotless  lawn, 
A  dream  in  dimity,  fresh  as  dawn, 
Dark-eyed,  round-ankled,  and  neatly  shod, 
No  goddess  ever  more  lightly  trod. 

When  Margery  crossed  the  sanded  floor, 
And  with  round,  white  arms  uplifted,  bore 
A  tall,  cool  bottle,  or  mug  of  beer, 
She  won  a  smile  from  the  most  austere. 


48 


THE    PHILTER 

But  Anthony  neither  smiled  nor  spoke, 
He  watched  her  longingly  through  the  smoke, 
Like  a  hungry  lad,  a  ripe,  red  peach, 
A  sway  on  a  branch  beyond  his  reach. 

He  'd  tried  to  woo  in  a  clumsy  way, 
Halting,  and  stammering  in  dismay, 
Whene'er  she  faced  him,  in  calm  surprise, 
And  met  his  own  with  her  questioning  eyes. 

Until,  quite  conquered,  he  smoked  and  drank 
From  morn  till  midnight,  in  silence  blank ; 
Hoping  some  turn  of  the  wheel  of  Chance 
Might  bless  an  eternal  vigilance. 

He  vowed  none  other  the  prize  should  win 
With  uncracked  head,  or  unbroken  skin  ; 
He  met  all  comers,  no  knight  of  old 
Laid  lance  in  rest  with  a  heart  more  bold. 


Ill 

At  last,  led  on  by  a  black  despair, 
As  midnight  rang  on  the  murky  air, 
He  boldly  knocked  at  the  witch's  door, 
Fearing  no  fate  but  the  one  he  bore, 


49 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

Willing  his  hope  of  heaven  to  sell 
For  magic  philter,  for  charm  or  spell, 
He  cared  not  what,  if  its  power  could  win 
The  love  of  Margery  of  the  inn. 

He  heard  a  rustle,  a  creak,  a  groan, 

The  witch's  blear  eyes  met  his  own ; 

She  pulled  the  latch-string,  and  from  the  gloom 

He  stumbled  into  the  reeking  room. 

A  smoking  caldron,  an  ebon  cat, 
An  hazel  broom,  and  a  pointed  hat, 
Strong  smelling  herbs,  in  grotesque  festoon, 
He  saw  all  dimly,  as  in  a  swoon. 

But  still  undaunted,  his  tale  he  told, 
And  crossed  the  crook  of  her  hand  with  gold, 
He  begged  a  charm,  when  he  'd  told  his  tale, 
Some  hell-hatched  philter,  which  could  avail 

Against  sweet  Margery's  stubborn  breast ; 
He  vowed  such  payment  as  pleased  her  best, 
His  house,  his  cattle,  his  gold,  his  farm, 
Or  e'en  his  soul,  he  must  have  the  charm. 

She,  leering,  listened,  and  in  his  hand 
She  pressed  a  vial,  with  this  command, 


THE    PHILTER 

u  Give  her  this  potion,  when  in  the  sky 
The  moon  is  full,  and  the  wind  is  high  ; 

"  Then  go  not  near  her,  until  once  more 
The  full  moon  shines  as  it  shone  before ; 
The  charm  is  worthless,  if  sight  or  sound 
She  has  of  thee  till  the  moon  is  round.'* 

And  as  he  paused  at  the  open  door, 
She  shook  her  finger,  and  said  once  more, 
"  Remember,  out  of  her  sight  to  stay, 
And  go  not  near  for  a  month  and  day." 

When  from  her  threshold  he  stumbled  forth, 
And  faced  the  breath  of  the  frozen  North, 
His  sheep-skin  wallet  was  lank  and  thin, 
But  free  his  soul  of  the  mortal  sin. 


IV 


The  next  night  rose  up  a  full,  red  moon, 
The  wind  it  blew  over  wave  and  dune, 
O'er  wood  and  meadow  it  swept  like  sin, 
And  shook  the  sign  of  the  "  White  Crow  Inn." 

Silent  as  ever,  Anthony  sat 
Beside  the  fire,  only  the  cat 

51 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

Was  closer,  and  in  her  eyes  to-night 
There  seemed  to  shine  an  unholy  light. 

On  stool  and  settle  there  perched  and  sprawled 
The  tavern  loungers,  they  puffed  and  drawled, 
They  told  strange  tales,  and  old  songs  they  sang, 
Rough  with  the  "  burr  "  of  the  Yorkshire  twang. 

The  Solons  prated,  in  accents  wise, 
The  simple  listened  with  wondering  eyes, 
And  incidentally,  all  the  while 
The  pewters  passed  in  a  steady  file. 

So  well  did  Margery  know  what  best 
Suited  the  palate  of  every  guest, 
She  filled  each  tankard  without  a  word, 
Reading  its  emptiness  e'er  it  stirred. 

Now  here,  now  there,  through  the  haloing  smoke 
She  walked,  a  goddess  that  seldom  spoke ; 
A  queen  was  she,  with  her  regal  brow, 
Who  ruled  her  subjects,  they  knew  not  how. 

But  when  the  clock  by  the  chimney  side 
Struck  twelve,  it  signalled  an  ebbing  tide  ; 
Over  the  threshold,  subsiding  fast, 
Till  only  Anthony  stayed  at  last. 


THE    PHILTER 

Silent  he  sat,  and  his  face  was  pale ; 
He  drank  his  tankard  of  nut  brown  ale, 
Ordered  a  bottle  of  rare  old  port 
That  paid  no  tribute  to  king  or  court, 

And  asked  of  Margery  that  she  would  take 
A  farewell  glass,  for  old  friendship's  sake ; 
A  farewell  glass  to  a  love  unblessed, 
Wearied,  at  last,  in  a  hopeless  quest. 

'Twas  half  a  challenge,  she  took  the  wine, 
Filled  with  a  dread  she  could  not  define, 
Yet  met  his  eyes  with  a  steady  glance, 
As  free  from  fear  as  a  levelled  lance. 

And  he  looked  long  at  the  wilful  face, 
Sating  his  sense  with  its  wondrous  grace ; 
Each  well-loved  feature  he  lingered  o'er 
As  gloats  a  miser  over  his  store. 

Her  wine  he  'd  mixed  with  the  witch's  draught, 
But,  as  he  gazed,  he  deplored  his  craft ; 
It  seemed  a  crime  to  attempt  to  win 
Unwilling  love  by  a  charm  of  sin. 

His  face  grew  red  as  the  embers  flame, 

He  dropped  his  eyes  with  a  sense  of  shame ; 


53 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

And  when  he  looked  not,  to  please  her  ire, 
She  spilled  the  wine  on  the  dying  fire. 

He  only  saw  that  she  held,  alas, 
With  steady  fingers  an  empty  glass, 
And  showed  no  feeling  but  calm  surprise 
Meeting  his  gaze  with  disdainful  eyes. 

But  when  he  'd  left  her,  had  said,  "  Good-night, 
Good-night,  and  farewell,"  when  by  the  light 
Of  dying  embers  she  lingered  still, 
Her  face  was  pale,  and  her  heart  was  chill. 


Night  after  night,  through  the  tavern  door 
The  tide  it  flowed  as  it  flowed  before ; 
The  gray-beards  came  again  and  again 
To  gravely  talk  of  the  price  of  grain, 

The  backward  harvest,  or  how  to  keep 
On  five  poor  acres  an  hundred  sheep ; 
Their  songs  they  sang,  and  their  tales  they  told, 
Smoking  and  drinking,  just  as  of  old. 

Margery  parted  the  shrouding  haze, 
Sure  of  the  homage  of  every  gaze, 
54 


THE    PHILTER 

Paler  perhaps,  but  lovelier  still, 

Not  quite  so  fond  of  her  own  sweet  will, 

Not  quite  so  confident,  and  her  brow 
Was  less  serene  and  less  regal  now ; 
Often  her  glance  would  wander  o'er 
To  the  vacant  seat,  and  the  swinging  door. 

She  struggled  bravely,  and  fiercely  fought 
To  drive  the  rebel  from  out  her  thought ; 
But  could  not,  for  ever  in  her  breast 
There  grew  a  longing  that  would  not  rest. 

A  ceaseless  longing,  that  grew  so  fast 
She  brought  brown  sherry  for  beer,  at  last 
And  ere   the  unhappy  month  passed  by, 
She  drank  despair,  and  she  prayed  to  die. 


VI 


So  when  again  shone  the  full  red  moon, 
And  swept  the  wind  over  wave  and  dune  ; 
When  once  again  to  the  "White  Crow  Inn," 
Anthony  came  for  the  fruit  of  sin, 

He  saw,  no  longer  a  ripe  red  peach 
Hung  on  a  branch  far  beyond  his  reach, 

55 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

But  swinging  low,  at  the  first  demand 
Ready  to  drop  in  his  waiting  hand. 

He  took  no  chances,  and  e'er  once  more 
The  full  moon  shone  as  it  shone  before, 
The  witch's  words  were  true  to  a  line, 
The  "  White  Crow  Inn  "  was  an  empty  shrine  ; 

It  had  no  goddess,  its  wine  was  flat ; 

Its  ale  was  bitter,  and  warm  at  that, 

Its  fire  lacked  cheer,  and  the  tide  no  more 

Flowed  strong  and  free  through  the  swinging  door. 

Though  Margery  sat  by  his  chimney  side, 
A  most  surprisingly  docile  bride, 
Yet  Anthony  found  that  some  base  alloy 
Still  dimmed  the  gold  of  his  perfect  joy. 

The  thought  of  his  devil-purchased  art 

Hung  like  an  incubus  on  his  heart, 

He  questioned  ever  if  without  sin 

He  could  have  brought  her  his  home  within. 

So  much  he  grieved  at  the  evil  spell, 
His  secret  sin  he  resolved  to  tell, 
Winning  her  promise,  mid  much  distress 
She  'd  surely  shrive  what  he  'd  confess. 

56 


THE    PHILTER 

He,  stammering,  told  her,  with  grave  alarm, 
How  he  had  wrought  with  the  witch's  charm  ; 
How  she  had  drank  on  that  fateful  night, 
And  he  had  hidden  a  month  from  sight. 

"  No  stain  of  sin,  as  my  soul 's  the  judge," 
Nor  empty  wallet  do  I  begrudge, 
Yet  't  was  not  I,  but  the  witch  drugged  wine 
That  won  thy  love,  and  that  made  thee  mine." 

Prepared  for  fear,  and  some  sad  surprise, 
She  laughed  till  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes, 
"  I  freely  shrive  thee,"  she  said  at  last, 
"  Into  the  fire  the  wine  I  cast. 

"  No  harm  was  wrought  by  the  draught  of  sin, 
No  whit  it  helped  thee  my  love  to  win, 
The  only  charm  of  the  wolf-eyed  crone, 
Was  this,  —  she  bade  thee  to  leave  me  alone." 

And  lovers  all,  if  the  truth  were  told, 
May  use  with  profit  this  philter  old  ; 
If  maids  are  cold,  and  they  say  thee  nay, 
Try  absence,  bid  farewell,  and  stay  away. 


57 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  AIRS 


I  TYED  KATE'S  SHOE 

ITYED  Kate's  shoe;  she  paused  a  lyttle  space, 
And  shewed  to  me  ye  truant  sylken  lace, 
Lyfting  a  flounce  of  flowering  brocade, 
And  lawnie  skirts,  where  fragrant  odours  played. 
"  Wilt  tye  my  shoe  ?  "  she  asked,  and  paused  apace. 

I  dyd  not  know  how  perylous  a  place 

Was  at  her  feet,  of  danger  saw  no  trace, 

When,  kneeling  'neath  the   Lynden's  chequered 

shade, 
I  tyed  Kate's  shoe. 

Ye  tyme  I  took  was  surelie  no  disgrace, 
Altho'  Kate  sayd  so,  with  a  flushing  face ; 
And  yet,  alas,  tho'  lyttle  I  delayed, 
I  tyed  my  heart  within  the  knot  I  made, 
When,  careless  all  of  Love's  slye  interlace, 
I  tyed  Kate's  shoe. 


AT  PHYLLIS'  SYDE 

AT  Phyllis'  syde,  beneath  ye  shade 
I  lyngered,  tho'  she,  frownyng,  bade 
Me  saye  a  last  farewelle  and  goe ; 
I  kissed  hir  soft  browne  cheek,  aglow 

61 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


With  love  and  ire,  and  disobeyed. 

Above  us,  on  a  blossome  swayed 

A  bee,  with  golden  dust  o'er  laide, 

Who  scarce  coulde  flye.     I  watched  belowe, 

At  Phyllis'  syde. 

Sweete  Phyllis,  't  was  thy  fragrance  made 
Me  pause  beside  thee ;  that  I  strayed 
No  more  is  not  my  fault,  you  knowe ; 
My  wings  with  sweetes  are  laden  soe 
I  cannot  flye.     And  soe  I  stayed 
At  Phyllis'  syde. 


A  HEARTE  CONTENTE 

ILYKE  to  heare  my  master  saye, 
"  Jim,  thou  'rt  a  handy  lad  "  ; 
No  lass  doth  ever  smyle  at  me 
But  I  growe  wondrous  glad ; 
But  if  beneath  mye  ploughman's  coat 

A  somethinge  me  disownes, 
I  longe  still  more  for  ye  respect 
Of  mine  owne  self, —  Jim  Jones. 

I  coulde  endure  ye  king's  rebuke, 

Coulde  beare  ye  rector's  frowne, 
62 


A  CLEAR-EYED  CUPID 

And  e'en  ye  scorne  of  all  goode  folke 
From  "  Groates  "  to  Lundone  towne, 

If  onlye  I  coulde  heare  within 
Ye  haile  and  heartie  tones, 

Ye  "  well  done,  lad  "  of  mine  owne  hearte, 
Ye  praises  of  Jim  Jones. 


A  CLEAR-EYED  CUPID 

YONGE  Love,  aplaying  in  fair  Celia's  hair, 
Became  entangled  in  a  golden  snare, 
And  tearful,  vowed,  if  she  would  set  him  free 
He  'd  pay  ye  ransom,  whatso'er  it  be. 

She  loosed  his  lyght  wings  from  ye  twisted  tress, 
And  off  he  fluttered,  free  but  weaponless  ; 
For  Celia  tooke  his  quiver  and  swyft  bow 
For  ransome,  ere   she  let  ye  rascal  goe. 

More  merciless  than  Cupid,  Celia  is, 
Clear-eyed,  she  shoots  with  surer  aim  than  his  ; 
And,  if  ye  quiver  fail  not,  as  we  pray, 
Noe  man  shall  live,  but  beares  a  wounde  away. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


TRUTH  SINGS  SOE  FEEBLY 

FULL  many  a  noble  songe,  and  choice, 
Sung  by  a  weak  and  piping  voice, 
Hath  wone  but  scorne  and  laughter; 
Whyle  loude  approval  blessed  ye  songe, 
Sung  with  melodious  voice  and  stronge, 
Though  witless,  followyng  after. 

Truth  sings  soe  feebly  that  we  heare 
Not,  lystenyng  with  attentive  ear, 

Wisdome  in  whyspers  preacheth  ; 
But  Falsehoode  lyfts  hir  voice  on  high, 
And  sweete  words  check  us,  passyng  bye, 

To  telle  what  Folly  teacheth. 


PRUDENCE 

I  WALKED  with  Mistress  Prudence, 
In  ye  garden,  sore  oppressed 
With  longeyng  for  ye  pansy 

That  was  nestlyng  at  hir  breast. 


I  begged  ye  happy  flower, 

But  she  frowned,  and  shooke  hir  head ; 


64 


PRUDENCE 

"  I  dare  not,  I  distrust  thee, 
I  were  witless  else,"  she  said. 

"  Right  well  you  know  ye  pansy  's 

Called  ye  c  Kiss-me-at-ye-gate,' 
And  I  am  Mistress  Prudence, 
And  a  maiden  most  sedate." 

We  lingered  in  ye  garden 

Till  ye  staryng  sun  had  fled ; 

Ye  flowers  closed  their  eyelids, 
And  ye  robyns  gone  to  bed. 

Ye  moon  was  not  yet  risen 
In  ye  purple  evenyng  skye, 

When  I,  with  longeyng  glances 
At  ye  pansy,  said  "  Good-bye." 

She  shylie  gave  it  to  me, 

And  I  kissed  her  at  ye  gate, — 
Altho'  my  Mistress  Prudence 

Was  a  maiden  most  sedate. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


I  AM  NOE  JUDGE 

I  AM  noe  judge,  not  I ;  how  can  I  telle 
If  she  be  faire  ? 
P  faith,  I  care 
Not  if  she  love  me  welle. 

I  am  noe  judge,  not  I ;   how  can  I  knowe 

If  she  be  true  ? 

In  truth  I  rue 
No  falsehood  fashioned  soe. 

I  am  noe  judge,  not  J  ;  for  I  am  bought 

With  brybes  soe  rare, 

I  shoulde  not  dare 
Condemne  hir,  if  I  ought. 


AUBADO 

OH,  faire  is  ye  morning, 
Oh,  bright  is  ye  dawning, 
Ye  rose  on  ye  lattice  has  ope'd  to  ye  sun. 
My  hearte  is  a  flower, 
Looke  down  from  thy  bower, 

And  telle  me  ye  day  of  my  love  hath  begun. 

66 


AUBADO 

For  dark  were  ye  shadows 
Which  hung  o'er  ye  meadows; 

And  black  were  ye  mist  wreaths  that  circled  ye 

hill; 

My  bosom  was  weighted 
With  doubts  that  I  hated, 

And  clouded  my  hearte  with  forebodings  of  ill. 

But  gone  is  ye  madness 
Of  doubting  and  sadness ; 

Blown  off  with  ye  night  wind,  and  flown  with 

ye  dark; 

And  here,  in  ye  lightness 
Of  morning's  first  brightness, 

I  gaze  at  thy  windowe,  and  sing  with  ye  lark. 

Arise  from  thy  pillow  ; 
Ye  branch  of  ye  willow 

Is  bright  with  ye  dewdrops,  asway  in  ye  breeze ; 
All  nests  are  forsaken, 
I  pray  thee,  awaken, 

And  smyle  on  thy  singer  and  song  if  they  please. 

Oh,  faire  is  ye  morning, 
Oh,  bright  is  ye  dawning, 

Ye  rose  on  ye  lattice  has  ope'd  to  ye  sun. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

My  hearte  is  a  flower, 
Looke  down  from  thy  bower, 

And  telle  me  ye  day  of  my  love  hath  begun. 


SERENADE 

INTO  thy  windowe  ye  yonge  May  moon 
Is  smyling  with  delight ; 
Into  thy  windowe  floats  ye  tune 

Ye  cricket  sings  to-night ; 
Into  thy  windowe  ye  bold  wynd  creeps, 
Kissing  her  cheek,  whyle  my  ladye  sleeps  ;  — 
I  can  but  sing  to  thee. 

Into  thy  windowe  ye  garden  sends 

Its  perfume,  and  ye  rose, 
Climbing  ye  bars  of  ye  trellis,  bends 

With  every  wynd  that  blows  ; 
Into  thy  windowe  ye  red  rose  peeps, 
Gazing  at  will,  whyle  my  ladye  sleeps  ;  — 
I  can  but  sing  to  thee. 


68 


FRENCH  FORMS 


AN  ORCHARD  LANE 

AN  orchard  lane,  white  branches  overhead, 
Green  turf  beneath,  yielding  to  every  tread. 
On  either  side,  gnarled  trunks  in  reeling  row, 
And  fragrance  everywhere  from  winds  that  blow 
Now  here,  now  there.     The  world  was  dead, 
And  we  were  walking  down  a  path  that  led 
We  knew  not  where.     No  single  word  we  said, 
Walking  beneath  white  branches,  bending  low, 
An  orchard  lane. 

Upon  her  head  the  apple  blossoms  shed 

A  storm  of  petals,  and  I  thought  I  read 

In  her  sweet  face  a  budding  thought,  to  grow 

Perchance,  when   Summer's  ripening  suns  should 

glow, 

To  perfect  love.     What  barren  dreams  bespread 
An  orchard  lane  ! 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


TO  HER  SWEET  EYES. 

"  *  •  %O  her  sweet  eyes  !  "  I  mutter  as  I  drink, — 

A    Never  aloud, —  I  sip  my  wine  and  think. 
I  listen  to  each  loudly-spoken  toast 
To  mistress  Meg  and  Margery,  the  boast 
Of  favors  granted,  with  a  shrug  or  wink. 
Yet  to  proclaim  her  name  I  always  shrink ; 
So,  in  the  silence,  when  the  glasses  clink, 
I  whisper  then,  unheard  by  guest  or  host : 
"  To  her  sweet  eyes  !  " 

No  monk  am  I,  through  Life's  by-ways  to  slink  ; 
'Tween  wine  and  song,  Love  is  the  golden  link  ; 
I  've  known  caresses  warmer,  but  the  ghost 
Of  her  last  glance  is  with  me,  first  and  most. 
I  pledge,  in  words  that  low  with  reverence  sink  : 
"  To  her  sweet  eyes  !  " 


72 


TWO  ROSES 


TWO  ROSES 

A  FAIR  white  rose  sedately  grows 
Within  the  garden  wall.     There  blows 
No  wind  to  ruff  her  petals  white, 
No  stain  of  earth,  no  touch  of  blight 
The  pure  face  of  my  ladye  shows. 
The  queen  of  all  the  walls  enclose 
Might  be  mine  own,  an'  if  I  chose  ; 
But  yet,  but  yet  I  cannot  slight 
My  wild  red  rose. 

Outside  the  garden  wall  she  throws 
Her  clinging  tendrils,  and  she  knows 
How  strong  the  winds  of  Passion  smite ; 
She  's  fragrant,  though  not  faultless  quite  ; 
Just  as  she  is,  none  shall  depose 
My  wild  red  rose. 


73 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


WHEN  LOVE  GROWS  COLD 

WHEN  Love  grows  cold,  and  dead  the  flame 
That  once  we  strove  in  vain  to  tame  ; 
When,  from  the  embers  fades  the  light, 
Until  no  gleam  breaks  on  the  night 
Out  of  the  ashes  of  our  shame, — 
Then  comes  Regret,  then  to  reclaim, 
E'en  for  a  single  hour,  that  same 
Dead  Love  we  long.     We  start  in  fright, 
When  Love  grows  cold. 

And  with  Fear-shaken  hands,  we  aim 
Once  more  the  flame  to  fire ;  we  blame 
Our  past  neglect,  with  lips  contrite  ; 
We  seek  in  vain  a  cinder  bright ; 
No  god  the  ashes  can  inflame 
When  Love  grows  cold. 


74 


NOT  THEE  ALONE 


NOT  THEE  ALONE 

NOT  thee  alone  I  love,  though  best 
I  love  thee,  and  I  still  protest 
I  love  thee  well.     The  rose,  my  rose 
Is  queen.     Yet  still  the  lily  shows 
Her  pale,  sweet  face ;  the  daisy's  breast 
Is  golden,  and  the  violet  blest 
With  fragrance  all  the  winds  attest. 
Frown  not,  because  my  fondness  knows 
Not  thee  alone. 

They  swear  to  thee, "  In  East  or  West 
There  is  none  other  worth  the  quest, 
Thou  art  the  only  flower  that  blows." 
I'  faith  I  love  thee  more  than  those, 
But  love, —  the  truth  I  have  confessed,  - 
Not  thee  alone. 


75 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


THAT  MEDDLER,  DEATH 

THAT  meddler,  Death  !    There  is  no  plan, 
However  wide  or  wise,  he  can 
Not,  mocking,  thwart.     I  'd  win  success, 
Fame,  riches,  love,  content ;  I  'd  press 
My  brow  with  wreath  empyrean, 
Were  there  none  other  barrier  than 
Foul  Fate.     But,  hopeless  all,  I  scan 
That  face  so  cold  and  pitiless ; 
That  meddler,  Death ! 

I  have  run  well,  yet  every  span 

He  might  have  tripped  me  as  I  ran ; 

I  still  must  run,  the  bitterness 

Of  certain  failure  to  possess ; 

Death  spoils  the  schemes  of  every  man. 

That  meddler,  Death  ! 


A  THORNLESS  ROSE 


A  THORNLESS  ROSE 

A  THORNLESS  rose  you  gave  to  me 
Last  night,  and  giving  it,  you  sighed, 
And  wished  you  were,  "  en  verite," 
A  thornless  rose. 

You  faced  me,  flushed,  and  stormy-eyed  ; 

A  penitent,  yet  I  could  see 

You  half  appealed,  and  half  defied. 

Thorny  and  fragrant,  it  may  be 
Something  of  fragrance  were  denied 
Thee,  lacking  thorns  ;   I  '11  not  wish  thee 
A  thornless  rose. 


77 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


I  DO  NOT  KNOW 

I  DO  not  know  why  you  and  I 
Are  cast  this  part  or  that  to  play ; 
Why  he  is  low  and  she  is  high 
I  do  not  know. 

You  ask  me  why  some  hearts  are  gay, 
While  others  grieve ;  why  all  must  die  ; 
Why  passions  tempt  and  sins  betray. 

Glad  am  I  that  the  gods  deny 
Omniscience,  and  that  I  can  say, — 
I  could  not  answer,  should  I  try  ; 
I  do  not  know. 


A  WOFUL  BALLAD 

"A    WOFUL    BALLAD    TO    MY    MIS 
TRESS'  EYEBROW" 

MY  mistress  dearly  loves  to  hide 
Beneath  concealing  lashes,  eyes 
That  speak  too  plainly.     Long  she  tried 

My  wit  and  patience,  to  surprise 
Her  humor,  spite  of  the  disguise ; 
But  now  her  secret  I  waylay ; 
For,  though  her  eye  my  search  defies, 
My  mistress'  brows  her  thoughts  betray. 

There  was  a  time  when,  level-eyed 

She  met  my  gaze.     Like  Summer  skies, 
Cloudless,  her  blue  orbs  opened  wide 

To  question  or  to  criticise. 
I  could  not  say  "  A  secret  lies 

Hid  in  those  depths."    I  could  not  say 
41  Though  answering  glance  her  eye  denies, 

My  mistress'  brows  her  thoughts  betray." 

But  now,  when  she  will  not  confide, 
I  watch  her  brows,  I  note  their  rise 

And  fall,  the  frown  of  ire  or  pride, 
The  arch  of  doubt,  and  can  devise 


79 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 

To  change  them,  (warned,  and  doubly  wise,) 
To  perfect  curves,  which  plainly  say  — 

"  Love  shines  in  all  unclouded  skies, 

My  mistress*  brows  her  thoughts  betray." 

Princess,  if  Fortune  my  emprise 

Shall  bless,  will  her  red  lips,  some  day 

Speak  plainly  ?     Must  I  still  surmise 

My  mistress'  brows  her  thoughts  betray  ? 


THE  RECTORY  BOWLING  GREEN 

THE  churchyard  elms  stand,  thick  and  tall, 
Their  branches  swinging  long  and  low; 
They  brush  the  moss-grown  rectory  wall ; 
They  bend  to  all  the  winds  that  blow ; 
Only  a  hint  of  sunset  glow 
Breaks  through  their  thickly  woven  screen, 

To  shed  the  "  light  of  long  ago  " 
Upon  the  rectory  bowling  green. 

Its  velvet  turf  is  level  all ; 

No  weed  lifts  head,  no  flowers  grow ; 
The  door  swings  open ;  from  the  hall 

The  players  saunter,  suave  and  slow ; 

They  pace  the  long  path  to  and  fro ; 

80 


THE  RECTORY  BOWLING  GREEN 

They  doff  their  coats,  for  conquest  keen  ; 

Fine  linen  shone,  white  as  the  snow, 
Upon  the  rectory  bowling  green. 

Out  rolls  the  "  Jack,"  that  wizard  ball ; 

Over  the  green  I  see  it  go ; 
I  see  the  black  "  bowles  "  creep  and  crawl, 

Crowding  the  "  Jack  "  by  ring  and  row ; 

Hindered  or  helped  by  friend  or  foe, 
Raptured  with  joy,  and  racked  with  spleen, 

A  mimic  game  of  life  they  throw 
Upon  the  rectory  bowling  green. 

Grant  me,  oh  princess,  still  to  show 

To  all  the  world  a  face  serene, 
Though  Fate  may  many  a  flout  bestow 

Upon  the  rectory  bowling  green. 


81 


A  CHAMPAGNE  CORK 


A  CHAMPAGNE  CORK 

THOU  jailer  of  good  wine, 
Rough,  scarred,  and  surly, 
Thou  shalt  no  more  confine, — 
Thou  jailer  of  good  wine, — 
This  prisoner  of  thine ; 
We  '11  oust  thee  early, 
Thou  jailer  of  good  wine, 
Rough,  scarred,  and  surly. 


SOLITAIRE 

I  NOW  play  "  Solitaire ;  " 
I  once  played  "  Hearts  "  with  Molly, 
It  was  a  sad  affair, 
I  now  play  u  Solitaire,"  — 
A  safer  game, —  I  swear 
I  '11  not  repeat  my  folly  ; 
I  now  play  "  Solitaire," 
I  once  played  "  Hearts  "  with  Molly. 


82 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


MISNAMED 

MY  Lily  's  a  rose, 
And  my  Rose  is  a  lily ; 
No  cynic  but  knows 
My  Lily  's  a  rose  ; 
Their  names  I  'd  transpose, 
For  they  fit  them  but  illy  ; 
My  Lily  's  a  rose, 
And  my  Rose  is  a  lily. 


I  FENCED  WITH  KATE 

I  FENCED  to-day  with  Kate  ; 
Her  foil  had  lost  its  button. 
It  was  unfortunate ; 
I  fenced  to-day  with  Kate ; 
I  learned  her  skill  too  late, 
Of  wounds  I  am  no  glutton ; 
I  fenced  to-day  with  Kate, 
Her  foil  had  lost  its  button. 


SHE  DID  NOT  KNOW 


SHE  DID  NOT  KNOW 

SHE  stood  beneath  the  mistletoe, 
And  yet  I  dared  not  kiss  her; 
I  'm  very  sure  she  did  not  know 
She  stood  beneath  the  mistletoe; 
With  parted  lips  and  cheeks  aglow, 
'T  was  agony  to  miss  her ; 
She  stood  beneath  the  mistletoe, 
And  yet  I  dared  not  kiss  her. 


BLEAK 

A  SNOW-FLAKE  fell  upon  her  cheek, 
And  melted  not,  so  chill  the  greeting. 
The  smile  she  granted  me  was  bleak, 
A  snow-flake  fell  upon  her  cheek, 
I  vowed  no  more  her  love  I  'd  seek, 
From  her  benumbing  spell  retreating ; 
A  snow-flake  fell  upon  her  cheek, 
And  melted  not,  so  chill  the  greeting. 


84 


SONNETS 


IMMORTALS 

WE  wish,  and  strive  for  what  we  wish,  a  day, 
A  year,  sometimes  until,  with  outstretched 
hand 

Almost  atouch,  we  need  but  to  demand 
The  crown  of  our  desire ;  but  in  the  play 
Of  some  new  light  we,  witless,  turn  astray 
To  some  new  prize,  seeming  more  fair,  and  brand 
The  first  as  worthless,  changing  ever,  and 
At  last  Death  comes,  and  turns  to  nameless  clay. 

When  into  our  inconstant  souls,  there  creeps 

A  lonely  wish,  that  never  tires  or  sleeps  ; 

A  single  purpose,  a  supreme  desire, 

Consuming  lesser  longings  with  its  fire, 

Then  only  do  the  gods  reach  from  above, 

And  make  immortal  with  their  strength  and  love. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


THE  GANGES 

FRESH  from  her  divan  of  eternal  snow, 
The  Ganges  leaps  adown  the  mountain  side. 
O'er  pine-clad  hills  her  waters  swiftly  glide, 
Through  groves  of  palm  and  citron  gaily  flow ; 
But  by  Benares  temples,  sad  and  slow 
The  movement  of  her  flower-sprinkled  tide, 
For  countless  stains  of  sin  within  it  hide, 
Ashes  of  death  the  silent  bosom  strow. 

How  many,  weary,  racked  by  sin  and  pain, 
Have  felt  thy  gentle  waters  round  them  pour  ; 
Freed  from  Life's  burden,  cleansed  from  every 

stain, 

Have  melted  into  ashes  on  thy  shore, 
Floating  upon  thy  tender  breast,  to  gain 
Oblivion's  ocean,  —  floating  evermore. 


88 


DONNA  PERFECTA 


DONNA  PERFECTA 

I  WOULD  thy  face  were  not  so  faultless  fair, 
I  would  thine  eyes  were  not  so  clear  and  bright, 
Thy  cheek  less  blooming,  and  thy  neck  less  white, 
Less  sweet  thy  smile  and  kiss,  less  soft  thy  hair ; 
I  would  thy  breast  enshrined  a  heart  less  rare, 
Would  that  some  shadow  dimmed  its  perfect  light ; 
I  wish  some  glaring  fault  would  try  the  might 
Of  this,  the  love  my  lips  so  feebly  swear. 

For,  though  the  whirling  world  were  searched  to 

find 

Its  most  capricious  heart,  't  would  constant  be 
To  one  so  wondrous  fair,  so  true  and  kind ; 
And  I  can  only  whisper  haltingly, 
The   threadbare   vow,   "  Not  grace   of   heart    or 

mind, 
Nor  outward  charms  I  love,  but  only  thee." 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


A  BAS  RELIEF  OF  MARK  ANTONY 

CLEAR    features,   cast    in    Nature's   choicest 
mold ; 

A  noble  head,  its  waving  locks  confined 
By  wreath  of  laurel,  carelessly  entwined  ; 
'Neath  arching  brow,  an  eye  supremely  bold  ; 
A  mouth,  whose  sensuous  lips  too  plainly  told 
The  regnant  sovereign  of  heart  and  mind ; 
A  forehead  by  Care's  crayon  faintly  lined, 
Burnt  in  the  flame  of  Passion  uncontrolled. 

A  grain  of  Virtue's  salt  thine  only  lack ; 
Offering  a  crown,  yet  easily  enslaved 
By  Egypt's  slender  hand ;  led  from  the  track 
To  Fame's  most  lofty  heights  by  soul  depraved ; 
Upon  thy  name  the  blot  is  deep  and  black, 
Which  History's  sharp  burin  has  engraved. 


90 


A  BREATH 


A  BREATH 

I  CLIMBED  a  sheltered  hillside,  till  the  sea 
I  faced,  hot-browed  and  breathless.     From  the 

West 

A  wind,  new  born  upon  the  billow's  crest, 
Greeted  the  rising  sun  with  ecstasy. 
Up  from  the  waves  it  hurried,  eagerly ; 
Taintless  as  Truth,  by  naught  of  earth  opprest 
Save  the  faint  fragrance  of  the  meadow's  breast, 
Caught  from  the  hillside  ere  it  climbed  to  me. 

The  first  cool  wave  swept  o'er  me,  and  I  drew 
A  long,  deep  breath  ;  into  each  thirsty  cell 
The  cool  stream  flowed,  as  to  a  desert  well, 
And   through   my  veins   the   fresh    blood    sprang 

anew.  — 

If  Life  were  circled  in  a  single  breath, 
'T  were  good  to  live  ;   I  still  should  shrink  from 

Death. 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


LAURA 

OH  them,  immortal  through  a  poet's  love, 
Whose  snowy  brow  is  glorified  beneath 
"  The  Singer  of  Avignon's  "  laurel  wreath, 
Thy  memory  hath  still  the  power  to  move 
From  Passion's  fever  breeding  mists  above. 
No  lure  of  love,  no  praise  of  honied  breath 
Could  mar  thy  stainless  life,  and  holy  death. 
For  two  score  years  the  constant  Petrarch  strove 

To  praise  thee  rightly  with  inspired  pen. 
He  told  thy  countless  charms  more  faithfully 
Than  painter's  truest  canvas,  and  we  see 
Thy  slender  form,  as  radiant  as  when 
He  saw  thee,  violet  robed,  with  golden  hair 
Afloat,  crossing  the  portal  of  Saint  Claire. 


92 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  ABBOTSFORD 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  ABBOTSFORD 

FULL  sweetly  flows  the  gentle  river  Tweed, 
Still  singing  to  itself  in  calm  content ; 
And  to  its  banks  a  triple  charm  is  lent 
By  rolling  hill,  steep  cliff  and  level  mead  ; 
Within  its  call,  a  knight  renowned  indeed 
His  castle  built,  his  towers  heavenward  sent ; 
Within  its  well-loved  walls  the  good  knight  meant 
To  spend  the  golden  days  that  were  his  meed. 

But  Debt's  dark  host  came  thundering  'gainst  the 

gate, 

Bidding  him  yield.     He  answered  not  a  word, 
But  'gainst  the  dreadful  arms  of  hostile  Fate 
He  fought  his  fight  with  never-resting  sword, 
And  dying,  conquered  when  't  was  all  too  late, 
But  saved  his  castle,  lovely  Abbotsford. 


93 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


WHAT'S  DONE  IS  DONE 

WHAT  'S  done  is  done.     The  record  of  the 
past 

Is  writ  indelibly.     Full  well  I  know, 
Whate'er  I  do,  the  record  still  will  show 
What  I  have  done,  distinctly  to  the  last. 
But,  if  no  deed  of  mine  can  overcast 
The  faintest  line  of  its  least  letter,  though 
The  tears  of  sad  Repentance  ceaseless  flow, 
Why  should  old  Failure's  mildewed  kernels  blast 

The  budding  grain  of  a  deserved  success  ? 

The  old  Lie  trip  me,  struggling  toward  the  truth, 

The  cast-ofF  Folly  of  a  foolish  youth 

Shame  me,  at  Wisdom's  feet,  with  loathed  caress  ? 

And  chains,  no  longer  linked  to  Sin,  exclude 

From  aught  but  creeping  toward  the  distant  good 


94 


THE  CROSS 


THE  CROSS 

TWO  rough-hewn  timbers,  crossed  against  the 
sky; 

An  awful  form  outside  the  city  gate ; 
A  ghastly  sign  of  vengeance  and  of  hate, 
To  fright  the  errant  slave's  averted  eye ; 
The  last  harsh  couch,  whereon  pale  Crime  doth 

,   lic> 

Seeking  in  vain  a  glance  compassionate  ; 

Symbol  of  death  most  dreadful  dealt  by  Fate, 
Until,  one  April  day,  they  lift  on  high 

A  thorn-crowned  King,  who  dies  upon  a  cross, 
Then  bows  a  world  before  the  sign  of  death, 
The  curse  is  changed  to  blessing  in  a  breath ; 
Its  gleaming  red  lines  knightly  shields  emboss ; 
On  woman's  breast  it  lies ;  no  day  dawns  bright, 
But  gilds  a  cross-crowned  temple  with  its  light. 


95 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


LIKE  A  GOOD  BRAHMIN 

SOMETIMES   like  a  good    Brahmin  could  I 
pray, 

When  life  is  weariest,  and  I  strive  in  vain 
To  separate  existence  from  its  pain, 
E'en  in  my  thought  of  heaven's  perfect  day. 
I  pray  sometimes,  when  all  of  life  is  gray, 
(Careless  of  sinful  thought,  and  lip  profane,) 
Nirvana's  sure  retreat  at  last  to  gain, 
To  draw  the  curtain  that  shall  bar  alway 

With  its  thick  folds,  pleasure  and  pain  alike, 
(They  both  were  pain  if  they  should  break   my 

rest,) 

And  on  some  somber  couch,  my  forehead  pressed 
To  a  cool  pillow,  where  no  light  can  strike, 
No  sound  can  break,  no  breeze  of  morning  creep, 
Sink  in  a  dreamless,  and  an  endless  sleep. 


AFTERTHOUGHT 


AFTERTHOUGHT 

WE    share    our    lives    with    Hope    and    vain 
Regret ; 

We  dream  of  Fortune's  favors,  till  the  years 
Are  gone  when  we  can  gain  them,  then  with  tears 
Of  useless  grief  we  labor  to  forget. 
But  Memory  still  must  tell  us  where  we  let 
The  gale  of  Fortune  'scape  us,  through  the  fears 
That  shake  a  feeble  heart,  the  sloth  that  steers 
To  windless  shores,  the  foolish  whims  that  set 

Broad  sails  on  shallow  streams,  leading  to  naught. 
Stranded,  at  last  fair  Hope,  to  whom  we  clung, 
Fearless  of  failure,  leaves  us,  holding  fast 
The  murky-mantled  ghost  of  Afterthought, 
The  pale-faced  whisperer,  with  the  bitter  tongue;  — 
Upon  her  withered  breast  we  lie  at  last. 


97 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


SLEEP 

SOFT  brood  the  shadows  o'er  the  slumbering 
plain ; 
Sweet,  through  its  fragrant  glades,  the  night  wind 

blows ; 
Slow,  'neath  the  willow  shades,  the  dumb  brook 

flows; 

Hushed,  e'en  to  silence  is  the  whispering  grain. 
Beneath  the  long  hedge-rows  the  flocks  are  lain ; 
In  cot  and  churchyard  weary  souls  repose  ; 
In  East  or  West  no  faintest  day-dream  shows, 
To  jar  the  reign  of  Sleep  with  light  profane. 

Yet,  from  this  dreamless  rest,  this  peaceful  calm, 
The  city's  shadeless  night  hath  power  to  lure ; 
In  palace  chambers,  sleepless  couches  charm 
From  the  low  cottage  on  the  fragrant  moor ; 
And  glaring  marble,  with  its  sculptured  palm, 
From  the  green  grave,  beneath  the  elms  secure. 


98 


E 


DAWN 


DAWN 

RE  Day  has  come,  though  Night  is  overpast, 
When  from  the  death  of   Slumber  we  have 

sprung, 

New-born,  to  see  the  first  red  sunbeams  flung 
Against  the  morning  star,  afading  fast ; 
When  facing  hours  we  care  not  to  forecast, 
Our  tense  nerves,  like  strong  harp  strings,  newly 

strung, 
Give  forth  a  clear,  fresh    note ;    when    Hope   is 

young, 
And  brain  and  body  wake  to  life  at  last  — 

We  breathe  no  prayer  to  heaven ;  why  should  we 


pray 


Each  is  a  god.     No  greater  strength  we  need ; 
Equal  are  we  to  mightiest  thought  and  deed ; 
Careless  are  we  of  aught  that  bars  our  way. 
When  from  the  sun  the  curtained  mists  are  drawn, 
Each  is  a  god ;  we  need  none  else  at  dawn. 


99 


APPLES  OF  ISTAKHAR 


DUSK 

WHEN   Day  has    overpast,  ere    Night    has 
come, 

When  toil  is  over,  tired  feet  at  rest, 
Hot  hands  are  still,  and  to  the  fading  West 
We  look  with  shaded  eyes,  doubting  and  dumb ; 
When  hearts  beat,  muffled  as  a  funeral  drum, 
And,  like  a  tired  bird,  within  the  breast 
The  weak-winged  spirit  broods  upon  its  nest, 
Conscious  of  naught  but  peace,  weary  and  numb  — 

We  turn  to  God.     We  lift  our  hands  to  pray, 
We  blow  the  altar  embers,  till  the  flame 
Mounts  heavenward.     No  longer  gods,  the  shame 
Of  Failure  haunts  us  from  the  wasted  day. 
Stripped  of  our  strength,  we   throw  the  cast-ofF 

husk 
Of  pride  aside,  and  turn  to  God  at  dusk. 


100 


THE  FIRST  EDITION  OF  THIS  BOOK  CONSISTS  OF  FIVE 
HUNDRED  COPIES  WITH  FIFTY  ADDITIONAL  COPIES  ON 
HAND-MADE  PAPER  PRINTED  DURING  NOVEMBER  1895  BY 
THE  EVERETT  PRESS  BOSTON 


f?.  /!  T>  O 

o  ^  c-  o 


IAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000  672  371     2 


